


you and i (we're fireworks)

by stevenstamkos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: College Hockey, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Michigan Wolverines, Mutual Pining, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: “So we’re just never gonna talk about any of it, huh?” Dylan says quietly.Zach tips his head back, puts his beer on his knee and doesn’t look at him. They’ve been doing so well, not talking about it all year. And by it, Zach means everything, all the unexplained looks and unspoken words, but mostly he means what happened in Lake Placid.





	you and i (we're fireworks)

**Author's Note:**

> To Hailey and Vidri, thank you for reading this over and holding my hand as I fretted over every detail
> 
> This isn't the actual Lake Placid roster from summer 2014; I used the 2015 WJC team throughout. Warning for underage drinking and light use of recreational drugs. There-if-you-squint background John Hayden/Thatcher Demko
> 
> Title from "Fourth of July" by Fall Out Boy (at least, until I started adding punctuation)

Zach is not exactly drunk, but it’s easier to pretend that he is. Makes him feel a little more justified in his actions, as they half-stumble through the hallway, full of cheap beer and hard liquor and the smell of the lake in Dylan’s hair. It’s a little hard going since their mouths are glued together, but they do eventually get to Zach’s room, or what Zach _thinks_ is his room, and his keycard works, so he hauls Dylan over the threshold and slams the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

Early August in New York is just the right amount of hot. It’s the perfect mix of clear sunny days and clean mountain air and the coolness coming off the lake. Zach loves it here.

Of course, they’re not in Lake Placid to relax. Far from it. They’re in Lake Placid for the National Junior Evaluation Camp, which is a big fucking deal, because whoever does well will get a roster spot at World Juniors in December. Men live and die by their skates here.

“I wouldn’t really call it dying,” Auston says, but then again, Auston is _Auston_. Generational.

“Nah, it’s like dying,” Hayds says, freeing himself from Demko’s clutches long enough for air. “It’s exactly like dying.”

“But the fun kind,” Dylan agrees. “Death by hockey.”

Zach thinks, looking at Dylan, that death by hockey is probably the least of his worries.

 

 

The rooming situation in Lake Placid is a bit of a mess, but they make do with what they’ve got. Zach is rooming with Miles Wood, forward, property of the New Jersey Devils the poor fucker. It doesn’t really matter who he rooms with though, because he’s usually hanging out with Dylan, or Dylan is hanging out with him, and everyone knows the deal.

“So you and Larks are tight,” Miles says, because Miles has a habit of stating the obvious.

Hanny snorts. “Michigan boys, don’t you know? Fucking codependent.”

As if Hanny as a right to talk. He’s sprawled on the bench with Zach, one arm thrown around the back and bracketing Eichs’s shoulders. If Dylan and Zach are Michigan boys, then Noah Hanifin and Jack Eichel are Massachusetts morons.

“We’re not codependent,” Zach says mildly. “We just get each other.”

“Sorry Z, all I hear is codependent.”

“That jealousy, Hanny?”

Hanny gives him a look of pure distaste, which is pretty much in line with his normal face.

Zach looks over the field, shading his eyes with a hand. Dylan is passing a soccer ball back and forth between a few of the boys, shirt abandoned on the sidelines, but he looks up just a couple seconds later, as if he can feel Zach staring. They make eye contact for a heartbeat before Dylan breaks from the group and heads over.

“Not joining us for the game?” he asks, when he’s still a few feet away.

Zach shakes his head. “Too many guys on the field.”

“We could make room.”

“I’ll save my energy for two-touch and Finland later.”

Dylan stops in front of him, still breathing hard. He’s sweating, damp chest and damp hair, and his shorts are hanging dangerously low on his hips. Zach isn’t sure what to look at. “Shirts versus skins. Shirts got a few big guys on their team, so we could really use some muscle. C’mon Zach, we got room for a few more bodies.”

“Yeah Werenski, you should loosen up,” Eichs says.

But it’s Dylan’s face, pink and hopeful, that makes Zach stand up and strip off his shirt. “Yeah alright, why not.”

And Dylan smiles and throws a sweaty arm around Zach’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his side as they walk back onto the grass together. He’s already talking strategy in a low, excited voice, gesturing with his free hand, head bent close to Zach’s.

As they go, Zach hears someone, either Hanny or Eichs, mutter, “Codependent.”

 

It’s not like Zach meant to start hanging out with Dylan all the time. It’s just that Dylan is so easy to get along with, and they’ve been friends and teammates for so long that it’s natural to fall into a kind of rhythm around each other.

Doesn’t hurt that they play good hockey together, play good hockey on a good fucking team.

They absolutely blow out Finland and Sweden, and Zach knows they’re only exhibition games, but it’s got him feeling good, like he’s ready for Michigan and his final season before the draft.

Dylan scores and scores, and Zach isn’t on the ice for every goal and assist, but he’s there when they get off the ice and Dylan is laughing and high from the fight, blood pumping and full of energy as he grabs Zach’s shoulders and thumps his back and pulls him into a hug. Zach likes Dylan best like this, when he’s glowing with victory, untouchable.

 

 

After their final morning practice together, a few of the boys decide to borrow a boat and spend their last afternoon on the lake. Tuch’s family spends enough time at the resort to keep a sweet little yacht here, and Alex lifted the keys when he was back home.

It’s a pretty good way to spend their last day, doing a bit of fishing and swimming and drinking. Schmaltzy is fishing, or at least _trying_ to fish, though he hasn’t caught anything bigger than his thumb. He seems alright with that. Hanny has lit a joint and is passing it around, looking more baked than usual.

Thatcher is laid out in the sun tanning, limbs thrown out like a starfish, and Hayds keeps fetching him beer and repositioning the sunglasses on Thatch’s face. Zach grins as he watches them. They’re fucking adorable. Like puppies.

The sun is low in the sky when Dylan climbs back on the boat, happy and dripping all over the floor, wet skin gone rosy with the sunset. He is wearing a pair of dark blue swim trunks with a yellow M on them, _Zach’s_ trunks, ones that Zach bought when he decided to commit to Michigan.

Framed by the sky, Dylan looks relaxed, loose, like he’s in his element. Zach stares at him and doesn’t think.

“Hey, pass me one?” Dylan jerks his chin toward the cooler, and Zach nabs a can of Bud Light and tosses it perfectly into his hands. “Thanks.”

Zach watches as he cracks it open and takes a long drink.

“Have a good swim?”

“Yeah, man. The water’s perfect.” Dylan wanders over and takes a seat, pressing his wet thigh against Zach’s. “What’ve you been doing all day? You hardly went in the water, and I know you weren’t fishing. Schmaltzy’s got a monopoly on the bait.”

“Just, you know, thinking.”

“Well don’t think too hard. Wouldn’t want you out with an upper body injury before the season starts. We’re gonna need that head.”

“Ha ha,” Zach says, deadpan, because as far as jokes go, that one’s about as unoriginal as they come.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Thatcher flail upright, jostling Hayds, who looks like he fell asleep sitting up. Thatch is patting Hayds’s shoulder in apology, and Hayds grabs his hand and squeezes, once.

Zach glances at Dylan’s hands. His fingers are kinda pruney from being in the water so long. He has big hands, soft hands on the handle of a stick, wrapped now around his beer, and Zach wants—

A stiff breeze blows through the boat and Dylan shivers a little. He hands Zach his can and stands up. “I’m gonna go grab a shirt from inside. Be right back, hold my beer.”

“Sure,” Zach says. He takes a drink from Dylan’s Bud Light.

As Dylan ducks inside the cabin, Zach goes to find the rest of the boys, who are clustered together on the deck in a loose circle. He hangs back and listens to the conversation.

Sometime during the week, Chase de Leo bought a bunch of fireworks off some shady out-of-state dealer on Amazon, and Zach can hear him arguing with Thatch over how best to set them off. Knowing Chase, those fireworks are probably illegal in the state of New York. They’re probably going to be either complete duds or nuclear bombs that are going to blow them all clear across the water and possibly nuke the whole lake out of existence.

Thatch is waving a (thankfully unlit) lighter around, looking a little too excitable.

“You’re going to set the fucking boat on fire,” Hayds is saying, but he’s grinning lazily at Thatch, so Zach isn’t sure how useful he’ll be if the boat does go up in flames.

“Well no better place to be on fire,” Chase says. “We’re surrounded by water.”

Jesus Christ, he’s fucking stupid.

“That’s the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Schmaltzy says. A good and sensible dude, Nick Schmaltz.

“No, listen, it’s a great idea. Anything goes wrong, we jump in the water.”

Tuch breaks in. “And let my dad’s boat get blown up? No thanks.”

“Thatch is gonna kill us all first,” Auston says, very calmly. For someone facing the possibility of death at sixteen, he’s remarkably unruffled.

Chase pulls out one of his illegal rockets. “We’re not _trying_ to blow anyone up. Come on, nothing bad’s going to happen if we do this right. I read the instructions on the package and watched some youtube videos this morning. Doesn’t look hard, we just gotta be careful with the first one.”

“Oh, so we’re gonna get blown up by the _second_ one—”

They dissolve into arguing again, and Zach is thinking about joining them when Dylan steps out in a faded gray tee, USA Hockey on his chest, and Zach abandons the guys and follows him instead to the edge of the boat. They’re out in the middle of the lake, nothing but clear water ahead and clear sky above and the first stars coming out. Dylan leans on the railing and stares out at the dark trees in the distance, sighing a little. It’s not quite a happy sigh, Zach thinks, glancing at him, but it’s not a bad sigh either. Like a beginning of a conversation kind of sigh.

“What were you thinking so hard about earlier? You’ve been kinda quiet today.”

The boat lights behind them catch the edges of Dylan’s face. His hair is drying in soft curls.

Zach looks away, out over the water where it’s safer. “I’m just taking it easy, thinking about the end of summer, stuff like that. My mom wants me to pack soon for college. Doesn’t want me to wait for the last minute and forget to pack a bunch of things.”

“Ann Arbor’s not far from Grosse Pointe Woods. You can always go home to grab stuff if you forget something.”

“Or steal your stuff.” Zach takes a drink from the beer in his hands. It’s getting kinda gross, now that it’s not cold.

Dylan takes his beer back. “ _Borrow_. No stealing allowed in our room.”

And Zach feels that subtle thrill that’s been sitting in his heart all summer, the excitement of moving out, of making his own space in his dorm room at Michigan, and sharing it with Dylan. College is supposed to be a prelude to something more, something better, and Zach can’t wait. That he gets to do it with Dylan is more than he could’ve wished for.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll borrow your stuff. And in return—”

There’s a sharp whistle and then a loud bang, and they both flinch as a firework half-explodes above them in red and gold. Chase lets out a whoop and then there are cheers and high fives, and Zach can hear them talking over one another about setting off the rest.

“I got one that spells out USA,” Chase yells.

Dylan laughs, already turning away from the water. “Damn, can’t believe they actually got that to work. You wanna join them? I heard Tuch say earlier that his dad has a whiskey cabinet on this boat, and Alex thinks he can break into it.”

“Yeah, right behind you,” Zach says, words already forgotten, and he follows Dylan to the rest of the group. Zach feels like he spends a large part of his life following Dylan.

 

They get off the boat and pile into their cars at maybe two in the morning, and it’s later than Zach is used to staying up, but it’s summer and he’s with his boys, and everyone is happy. Things are good.

Things are actually fucking great, and that’s not just the alcohol talking. Not that Zach is truly drunk, despite Alex Tuch’s excellent liquor. Or Alex Tuch’s dad’s liquor, really. Zach is buzzed, maybe, and feeling it, but he’s still coherent enough to recognize that it’s probably not a great idea to be staring at Dylan’s lips.

He gets in the car.

Zach is squished in the backseat with Schmaltzy and Auston and Dylan, half on Dylan’s lap, and he can feel Dylan’s breath warm on the side of his neck. It’s distracting enough for him to forget that Thatch is doing 40 on a dirt road and no one is wearing a seatbelt.

Thatch does a horrible parallel parking job once they get back to the hotel, but no one cares. Everyone stumbles out and heads for their rooms, leaving Zach alone to look for his missing flip flop in peace.

He’s ducking out from the backseat, missing flop on his foot (kicked under the passenger seat), when Dylan says suddenly, “I’m not sleepy yet.”

Zach bangs his head on the edge of the door. It’s enough to get him most of the way to sober.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you left with the rest of the boys.”

Dylan walks him into the hotel and through the lobby. “I’m not tired yet. I was gonna ask if you wanted to play ping pong or something.”

“You sure you can keep your win streak alive after the tequila?”

“I’m good. Look, steady hands.”

He does have steady hands. Zach is absolutely not going to stare at them.

“Just like, lay in bed and watch memes until you fall asleep. Send me some good ones if you find any.”

“I like hanging out with you better though.”

Zach blinks.

“Oh. Thanks. I uh, I like hanging out with you too,” he says, caught off guard and too honest, and that’s definitely the last of the alcohol loosening his tongue.

Dylan’s mouth moves a tiny bit, soundless. He’s flushed pink, eyes bright, and he’s sweating a little, just enough to give him an unfair glow in the lobby lights. The bank of elevators is hardly a romantic place, but Dylan looks good here, and he’s starting to smile, and Zach’s mind is kind of scrambled.

He isn’t sure who leans in first.

Zach isn’t sure who bites the other's lip and pulls the other closer and buries his hands in the other’s hair. He isn’t sure whether Dylan pushes him against the wall, or if he pulls Dylan to him as they make out.

And when they decide to move it upstairs, he isn’t sure who pushes the button for the elevator and who shoves the other through the doors when they open, and he isn’t sure who gets out first when they reach their floor. Dylan is a pretty good kisser, and Zach is nowhere near drunk enough to justify sliding his hand under the hem of his shirt, palm hot on the skin of Dylan’s waist.

There is really only one way this is going to end.

“Your room,” Dylan mumbles against his lips.

“Uh, Auston,” Zach says. Not that he wants to be saying Auston’s name when Dylan is trying to feel him up in the hallway, but Auston is almost certainly in Zach’s room right now.

“Probably sleeping after all the tequila he had. He almost passed out in the car. We’ll be quiet.”

This is _such_ a bad idea. They’ve given Auston maybe fifteen minutes to get up to the room and fall asleep, and—

And Zach’s dick is telling his brain to shut up.

He fumbles his keycard out of his wallet, which is pretty slick considering how his mouth hasn’t left Dylan’s the entire time. And then they’re stumbling through the open doorway, and Zach has just enough time to slam the door shut before Dylan is shoving him onto the bed.

 

 

They wake up almost late for their flight.

“Shit, shit,” Dylan says, and he windmills out of bed and tears out of the room in just his boxers, clothes balled up in his fist.

Zach doesn’t have time to worry about Dylan’s semi-public indecency though, because he’s busy running around throwing his clothes in his bag, plugging in his phone to charge as he packs. Auston jerks upright in the next bed, hungover and vaguely annoyed.

“What was that?” he asks, squinting at the door.

“Gotta catch my flight. Didn’t fucking set an alarm last night—”

“Was someone in here?”

And Zach has one moment to thank whatever god is out there that Auston somehow missed not only the (quiet) fucking around going down last night, but also the sight of Dylan’s pale naked ass in Zach’s bed this morning. That saves him one uncomfortable conversation he’ll never need to have.

“No one was here. Your flight’s not for hours. Go back to sleep.”

Auston grunts and gets out of bed anyway, and he even grabs Zach a bagel from downstairs. Zach loves the guy.

He tosses his toiletry bag in his duffel and zips it up, and then he’s grabbing his stuff and saying bye to Auston and heading for the elevator, doubling back for his charger, and then grabbing a cab with Dylan to the airport.

By the time they settle on the plane, sweaty and out of breath, it’s a little awkward to bring up what happened last night.

Dylan is already putting on his headphones and pulling out his Nintendo, and Zach just doesn’t fucking know what to say.

He doesn’t know how to tell Dylan about the way his chest felt tight when he woke up and saw Dylan’s curls on his pillow and their clothes on the floor. Doesn’t know how to tell Dylan about the way his skin felt against Zach’s, too-hot last night and too-hot again this morning, one arm flung over Zach’s chest. Doesn’t know how to tell Dylan that when he opened his eyes, he thought for one wild, hopeful moment—

Well anyway, no way they can talk about it now.

 

When they touch down in Detroit, Dylan takes off his headphones and smiles at Zach, cheerful and a little sleepy and so fucking _normal_ that Zach really, really can’t bring it up. It was probably a mistake anyway. A one-time thing. They had too much to drink the night before, drunk on alcohol and the fireworks and the stars reflected in the lake and the sharp mountain air—

Yeah, that was it.

Zach smiles back carefully. Normal. He can do normal.

 

* * *

 

“We should check out Compher’s room,” Dylan says.

Zach pauses, still in the middle of stacking his books on his new shelf. Dylan has shoved all of his boxes into his side of the room and is only half-unpacked, ignoring his clothes in favor of setting up his Xbox. He’s got his bedding done and some stuff made its way into the drawers, but the room is still pretty messy.

“What’s in Compher’s room?”

“He texted me a few minutes ago, said he invited some guys from the team and some other people who live in our hallway. We should head over and say hi at least.”

So Zach lets Dylan drag him down the hall to J.T.’s room, where they meet a couple of their new teammates. Meet a couple girls too, who look at Zach with more than a little interest. It’s really too bad that Zach is still stupidly hung up on his best friend. Not that he like, _needs_ Dylan to like him back in order to live. It’s just kind of hard to be interested in other people right now, with Dylan on his mind all the time.

A cute brunette makes eye contact with him over J.T.’s head and waves a little. Zach waves back.

He should probably take the opportunity to put himself out there and meet new people this year. Get over the whole Dylan Larkin thing, if that’s possible. (It’s possible, right? It has to be possible. Zach would die if it weren’t possible.)

Comphs sees the brunette checking him out and laughs, slapping Zach on the shoulder. “Wow Werenski, the ladies are lining up for your number already.”

“What can I say,” Zach says, trying to play it cool.

“You gonna talk to her? She’s been staring for a bit now. And she’s pretty hot.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna—” Zach takes a deep breath, but before he can move, Dylan fights his way out of the crowd and throws an arm around him, putting his lips to Zach’s ear and saying some nonsense about an NHL 15 tournament this weekend with the boys to kick off the year, and does Zach want to join?

“I get dibs on the Wings though,” Dylan says.

“Oh come on, man. You’ve been playing the Wings all summer.”

“Well, you know. They drafted me. So you wanna join us or nah? I’ve got six of us so far, and we’re gonna do a playoff-style tournament, and the final is gonna be best of three. Winner gets first pick of locker room music and other stuff. We haven’t decided all the perks yet.”

Zach’s eyes slide away from the girl, to Dylan’s face, which is inches from his. “What time did you say this tourney was?”

Dylan beams.

By the time Dylan lets him go long minutes later, Zach has lost the girl’s attention, but he finds that he doesn’t really care.

 

 

Sometimes, Zach will wake up in Dylan’s bed, or Dylan will wake up in Zach’s, sprawled on top of the covers and fighting for space on their too-small bunks. It’s not like they mean to fall asleep in each other’s spaces. It’s just really easy to fall asleep around each other.

Not that Dylan is boring. Far from it. But when it’s one in the morning and they’re going over the reading on comparative politics, and Dylan’s body is a familiar presence next to Zach, breathing even and tired, it’s easy to relax and just, fall asleep.

The first time it happened, Zach was in Dylan’s bed, and he woke up with a mouthful of Dylan’s bedspread and the weight of Dylan’s arm thrown across his back. His laptop was pushed to the foot of the bed, Dylan’s set carefully on the floor. They were kind of spooning? But it wasn’t weird. It was actually pretty nice, Zach thought, once he spit out the bedspread.

He’d crawled under his own covers without waking Dylan up, but. It was nice.

It doesn’t happen a ton, just enough for it to feel comfortable. Dylan will climb onto Zach’s bunk, knees against Zach’s thigh, and he’s close enough to smell when he bends over their laptops and books. Shoulders pressed together, notes spread out over the bedspread, the slow slide into late-night hours, when time is blurred by exhaustion.

Eventually, Dylan will close his books and stretch out over Zach’s covers, too tired to brush his teeth or get back into his own bed.

So Zach sometimes wakes up with Dylan passed out on his arm. It’s not like it _means_ anything.

 

 

Zach has a ten-page paper due at midnight, and he was worse than useless during their weekend game yesterday with NHL scouts in the building, and he’s overall in a really fucking bad mood, okay? He’s achy and he pushed himself too hard in practice today, and he just wants to get back to the room and plant his face in his laptop until he’s sure he’s not going to fail his expository writing class. Actually, he’d like to plant his face in his pillow, but that’s not exactly an option right now. There comes a point where procrastination is just not feasible anymore.

As soon as he walks into the room though, his eyes fall on the dresser, which is covered in Dylan’s shit. Like, his laptop and a bunch of protein bar wrappers and empty water bottles. One of the bottles is in danger of falling off the dresser and onto Zach’s bed.

For some reason, the sight of the mess pisses him the fuck off.

Zach doesn’t think he’s a hardass about keeping the room clean, and he knows that Dylan is a little messier than him, but it’s never been a problem before. They have a good balance. Dylan cleans up after himself for the most part, and Zach ignores the little bit of mess that there is. But those fucking wrappers and water bottles—

He slams his laptop down on his desk a little harder than necessary. Paper first. He’s sure Dylan will clean up when he gets back.

He is still furiously typing away a few hours later when Dylan walks into the room.

“Busy day?” Dylan asks. He lets his bag thump on the ground, too-loud, and Zach grinds his teeth and doesn’t look away from his laptop. He is running out of time.

“Paper due at midnight.”

“Damn. You just start on it today?”

Zach is not the type of student to start papers the day they’re due, but he had a bad weekend. It happens. “Yeah. Think I’ll get it done on time, if I half-ass this part.”

“Well don’t let me distract you.”

And then Dylan just flops onto his bed and pulls his laptop into his lap, and he doesn’t make any move to clean up the dresser.

Zach isn’t a hardass. He’s a neat freak but he’s never been a dick about it. But today, he snaps.

“So can you ever fucking clean up after yourself or do I have to do it for you?”

He can’t see if Dylan is looking at him or not, because he’s still plugging away at his paper.

Dylan’s voice is kind of tight when it comes. “I clean up after myself all the time.”

“The dresser’s a fucking mess of your stuff.”

“It’s just some wrappers, Zach. It’s not a big deal.”

“They’ve been covering the dresser for ages!”

“Now that’s an exaggeration. They’ve only been there for a few days.”

“Yeah but you shouldn’t have let them pile up in the first place.”

“Dude, what is your _deal_ today? It’s just—Okay, fine. I’ll clean up, see? I’m doing it.” Dylan hops off his bed and shoves everything on the dresser into the garbage, much more aggressively than he would normally. He’s looking pretty peeved right now. “There, happy now?”

“I’d be happy if you could do that without me having to tell you to.”

“Look, it’s just a few fucking wrappers and bottles. I don’t see the big fucking deal—”

“It’s been days and you haven’t done anything about it, and we _share_ that dresser, I don’t want to have to look at your mess all the time—”

They’re yelling over each other now, and Zach is so fucking mad for no fucking reason, throat tight and anxiety twisted up in his stomach, and he can’t think at all. It’s 10 p.m. and he still has three and a half pages to bullshit his way through.

Dylan storms out of the room. He grabs his bag and leaves abruptly, but he doesn’t slam the door. (Dylan doesn’t exactly have a flair for the dramatic, which is something that Zach has always liked about him.)

It takes a bit of time to cool down, but it helps that the dresser is clean now. It isn’t bothering him anymore, the way it was earlier. As Zach gets his emotions under control and stares at his half-written paper, going nowhere, anger is eventually replaced by guilt.

It wasn’t really a big deal, was it? Dylan isn’t a messy person, like he said. And this isn’t the first time that their room ended up a little messy. It’s a shared dresser though, he tells himself. But.

Maybe he was a little excessive. It’s not Dylan’s fault that Zach is stressed.

He types a few words carefully, sighs and erases them and starts the paragraph over again.

 

Dylan comes back into the room an hour later and wordlessly sets a cup of Starbucks at Zach’s elbow. It’s hot and comforting and just the way Zach likes it, perfect mix of sugar and cream and coffee.

Zach thanks him and keeps typing as Dylan grabs his stuff and heads for the showers. They don’t talk about the argument, but they don’t have to. They get each other.

There are no more arguments after that.

 

 

Sometimes, they talk about Zach playing for Detroit. It’s a long shot, one-in-thirty, but Dylan managed it, got picked by their hometown team. Zach remembers. Dylan gave him a Red Wings shirt immediately after he was drafted, and Zach laughed and put it on and tried not to read too much into the look on Dylan’s face.

So yeah, it’s not like Zach could ever forget that Dylan and home are twisted up together in his head, that Dylan and home mean pretty much the same thing these days.

“When you get drafted by the Wings—” Dylan starts, sudden in the blackness of the room.

“ _If_ I get drafted by the Wings,” Zach says.

“ _When_ you get drafted by the Wings,” Dylan says again, more firmly this time, “that’s gonna be the beginning of an era.”

Zach rolls over in his narrow twin bed, stares across the few feet of darkness separating his bed from Dylan’s. He can’t see much, just a shape that looks vaguely like the outline of Dylan’s body tucked under the covers.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll win the Calder, of course.”

“No, that’s mine. You can have it the year after though, if you come up later.”

“What, you think I’m not gonna make the team right out of training camp?”

“You might. You’re good enough. But how cool would it be to have the Calder go to the same team in back-to-back years? That’ll be us. Larkin and Werenski, Detroit Red Wings, right next to each other on the hardware.”

Oh. That sounds so fucking good. “Better not be the only hardware though,” Zach says.

“No, I said that it’s just the beginning, remember? We’re gonna win a Cup together,” Dylan says lightly. “Actually, make that two Cups.”

Zach pulls the covers up to his chin. “Yeah, sure thing.”

He’s not sure how much either of them really believes in this dream. They’ve played close to each other for years and years, through midget and some games in the NTDP and now here at Michigan, and being on the ice together is the best thing in the world. Zach is afraid that their luck is gonna run out soon, no way they can keep chasing each other from team to team. But it can’t hurt to hope, in the quiet moments before they fall asleep.

They never talk about it during the day, when the facts are too stark and too real. But at night, under the covers, they do, when it’s just their voices floating quietly through the darkness.

It makes the space between their beds feel a little smaller.

Makes Zach feel like the distance between Detroit and whatever team he’ll end up on feel a little smaller, too.

 

 

The room is dark and smoky and hot, loud with a song that has a thundering bass, and Zach is well on his way to drunk on a Wednesday night. He has an 11 a.m. tomorrow and a game on Friday, but he can skip the class and spend tomorrow recovering from a hangover, if he has to.

He lost Dylan somewhere near one of the flip cup setups, which is disappointing because partying with Dylan is the fucking best. All the clothes just start coming off around him when he’s plastered enough.

“You seen Larks?” he shouts at Niko as he wanders by.

Niko spreads his hands. “No idea where he is, sorry bud. Check the kitchen though, someone was raiding the fridge earlier.”

It’s quieter in the hallway, floor sticky, and Zach steps carefully around a couple making out in a doorway and finds Dylan in the kitchen, though he’s left the fridge alone. No, Dylan is instead doing shots off some girl’s stomach. Zach is pretty sure that she’s in their comparative politics class, but he can’t remember her name.

“Hi Zach,” she says, and giggles when Dylan misses the shot glass.

“Hi,” Zach says stupidly.

Dylan looks up at him, delighted. “Big Z! I was just looking for you.”

“Think you were having a harder time locating the glass.” Zach picks it up off the girl’s stomach and downs it in one go, and it’s like fire down his throat. Liquid courage. He meets Dylan’s eyes.

Dylan is alcohol-flushed, and he’s grinning at Zach like Zach is the best thing he’s ever seen. “Where’d you go earlier? Thought I lost you.”

“I don’t know. I was looking for _you_ the whole time.”

“I’ve been here for like,” Dylan looks at the girl, “how long have we been here for?”

“Fifteen minutes, I think,” the girl replies. She’s pretty cute. “I wasn’t paying attention to the time though. You did two shots off my belly.”

“Right,” Dylan says.

Zach didn’t even know that people still _did_ body shots. “Why were you doing body shots?”

“Niko took the funnel so I came in here looking for more beer, and there were a few people doing them, so I joined. Hey, did you wanna?”

And then Dylan is lifting his shirt, and the girl is sliding off the table, and even drunk, Zach knows that this is a bad fucking idea. Dylan’s belly is pale and defined, and Zach has seen him in every single state of undress, but putting his mouth so close to Dylan’s skin is just. A bad fucking idea.

“No, I’m uh, I’m good. I’ll pass.”

Dylan looks a little disappointed, but that might just be Zach’s imagination. He lowers the hem of his shirt. “Okay, what do you wanna do?”

And Zach—Zach wants to fucking dance.

“You wanna dance or something?”

Dylan laughs, like the idea of Zach dancing is really funny. It probably is, since neither of them is very good at it. “Why, you trying to wheel some chicks or something? You’re not gonna impress them with your moves. Try standing in the middle of the room and flexing instead.”

“No wheeling tonight. I just wanna dance.” And he doesn’t know why he does it, but he listens to the thudding beat for a moment and then pulls Dylan out of the kitchen and says, “C’mon, dance with me, Larks.”

“You’re more graceful on the ice,” Dylan laughs, but he follows. “Two left feet on the dancefloor.”

“I’m not that bad. Should’ve seen Tyler earlier, think he almost killed someone.”

“That bad?”

“Think Kreider destroying Price in the playoffs this year. Nearly took the guy next to him into next week, Tyler did.”

Dylan almost—giggles—and presses close as they move along with the crowd. He’s giving off heat like a furnace, all along Zach’s front, which should feel gross but only feels kind of hot, and not just in the temperature sense. He’s also staring at Zach, and Zach can’t see all that well since the room is dark and the lights are spinning like mad, but Dylan’s face is really close. His eyes are shining.

He looks like he wants to say something, like there’s this big secret of the universe on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be shared.

“What?” Zach says, because he’s drunk and curious.

Dylan licks his lips and shakes his head, half-smiling to himself for some reason. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Nothing. You’re just a really fucking terrible dancer.”

“Yeah well, so are you. So we’re perfect, right?”

“Yeah. Course we are, Zach.”

 

 

World Juniors is a shitfest.

Well, it doesn’t start as a shitfest. It starts pretty good actually, NTDP reunion midway through the season, and Zach feels hopeful going in. It’d be great to steal gold on Canadian soil.

But then. _But then._

Canada has always been a team that doesn’t go down easy, but losing to them is kind of a shit way to end the prelims.

Eichs spends the whole tournament looking like he wants to kill McDavid, which is unfortunate, and Chase de Leo gets all sad at Eric Comrie on the Canadian team, which is worse. Like, it’s one thing for the two generational talents to hate each other. It’s another for your teammate to be mooning over the enemy’s goalie _who beat you last game_.

“I just don’t want to hear about him, is that too much to ask?” Eichs mumbles around his mouthguard as they suit up for their quarterfinal against Russia. “It’s always McDavid this, McDavid that. How do you feel about Connor McDavid being ranked first, Jack? Like I care about him.”

On the other side of the room, Chase is fully dressed and texting furiously, and it doesn’t take a genius to know who he’s messaging. Fucale is starting for Canada tonight, which means that Comrie is free to distract Chase.

Zach sighs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hayds take a seat next to Thatcher’s stall. Thatch is doing his pregame breathing exercises, getting in the zone, but he leans into Hayds when Hayds puts an arm around him. Cute.

“Cheer up, Big Z, stop looking so grim. We got this,” Dylan tells him as they file out the room.

Dylan has always believed, heart and soul, in redemption. It’s pretty admirable.

And it shows. Dylan has been a beauty at Worlds so far, five goals and seven points in four games, undoubtedly team MVP. He is so fucking good, all the time.

He’s right, Zach thinks. They’re USA. They can do this.

 

They don’t do this. They lose by one goal in the quarterfinal, to Russia.

Zach doesn’t want to talk about it.

They get back to Michigan, and no one talks about it.

 

 

Playing at the Joe Louis Arena isn’t a new thing for Zach, but it’s thrilling every time. He skated here as a kid, and then again when he played for the NTDP, and now he’s here as a Michigan Wolverine. It’s pretty incredible.

Dylan is lit up and glowing as he gets dressed in the Wings’ locker room. He looks at home here, even in Michigan navy and yellow. Zach watches as he paces the room, careful not to step on the winged wheel on the floor, looking around at the stalls with a kind of possessive joy. This is the first time since the draft that Dylan is playing at the Joe. Last time, he had no idea what his future home arena would be. Now, he knows.

In a year, if Zach is really, really lucky, he might call this place home, too.

One more round of the room, and then Dylan is standing in front of him, watching as Zach tapes another stick. “You ready to kick ass out there?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Zach says, with false confidence.

He’s a little nervous, too-jittery. This is different than midget games he played here as a kid. The stakes are higher, and he’s focused on different things, so close to his dream. He can’t afford to get lost in the childlike joy of simply being at the Joe. There are NHL scouts in the stands.

Dylan must sense his nerves, because he puts a gloved hand on Zach’s shoulder, steadying. “I looked around earlier. Huge crowd tonight. Good to know so many people came out to watch us stomp Michigan State.”

He’s trying a little too hard with the pep talk, but Zach appreciates it. Appreciates a lot about Dylan, really.

“They’re probably here for you, Larks. That’s your crowd out there.” A good portion of the audience will be Michigan or Michigan State fans, but Zach is sure that there are a bunch of Red Wings fans too. How could they not come out to see Dylan, their future star? “They’re gonna love you,” Zach says quietly. He says it with real confidence, this time.

After all, how could they not? It’s impossible to not love Dylan Larkin.

Dylan taps Zach’s shin with his stick, a silent thanks.

They don’t say anything about how this might be Zach’s crowd, too. That kind of talk is reserved for their room, for the darkness and the stillness before they fall asleep.

Zach tries to tell himself that the Joe is special enough on its own. It doesn’t have to be his.

 

 

As the season goes on, Zach stays high in the draft ranks, and the Red Wings climb up the NHL standings into a playoff spot. It’s becoming clear that the Wings are too good this season to finish high enough in the lottery to pick Zach. Not unless they have a catastrophic end to their season, or unless Zach falls—hard.

It’s cool that their playoff streak isn’t in jeopardy. It’s also cool that the scouts think so highly of Zach. They’re both things that should make Zach happy, and he _is_.

He tries not to feel disappointed about any of it. He knows that Detroit was a long-shot anyway.

 

 

They lose the Big Ten conference final to Minnesota, in front of a sold out crowd at the Joe. Zach doesn’t talk about this, either.

He is getting very good at not talking about things.

 

 

April, and two things happen.

Thing one is that Dylan gets an invite to Worlds. It’s fucking insane, first time in Wolverines history that a freshman is invited to play for gold at Worlds. He’s leaving for camp in a month now that the season is over, and Zach is gonna have to finish the year and go through finals without him, but he’s excited for Dylan.

Thing two is that baseball season starts.

Well, maybe it’s three things.

It’s three things because baseball season starts, and Michigan has a student raffle for a pair of free tickets to one of the Tigers’ first games of the season. The seats are really good, behind the dugout. They’re perfect seats for any fan.

Zach enters his student ID and email in the raffle even though he never wins these things. Can’t hurt to try, right? They’re _really_ good seats.

 

He opens his email a week later and is pleasantly surprised to see that he’s actually won them.

So Zach suddenly has two tickets to a Tigers game, and because Zach is Zach, he invites Dylan. It makes sense. They’re both Red Wings fans first and foremost, but they’re Michigan boys. Detroit loyalty is in their blood.

Dylan slaps his shoulder and offers his fist for a bump when Zach gives him the second ticket.

“Sweet. Thanks a lot, man.”

“I figured it’s like a congrats on going to Worlds gift, or a sorry you’re taking your finals early so you can go to Worlds consolation prize.”

That gets a laugh out of Dylan. “Congrats on going to Worlds sounds better.” He admires the ticket in his hands for a moment. “This is gonna be so lit, dude. You have your Tigers jersey, right?”

“Left it at home, actually. Forgot it in my closet. But I can drive home this weekend and grab it.”

“Nah, I got you.” Dylan crosses to his closet and pulls out a home jersey, balling it up and throwing it in Zach’s face. “My dad bought me an extra a couple years ago.”

“You sure I’ll fit in it then?”

“He got it big, when he bought it. Try it on though, if you’re worried.”

Zach puts it on. It fits perfectly, and it smells like Tide or whatever laundry detergent Dylan uses, plus Dylan’s cologne. Good that it’s clean. Bad that it gives Zach a good old case of stomach butterflies, which he should be used to by now but really isn’t.

“It’s a good fit,” he says, and he takes the jersey off quickly.

When Dylan turns to put the ticket in his bag, Zach shoves the jersey in his hamper and vows to give it a good wash in his own detergent before the game. Wearing Dylan’s smell is a level of weird and desperate that he’s not exactly ready for.

 

 

“This is so cool, isn’t it?” Dylan says around a mouthful of hot dog.

Zach isn’t grossed out by Dylan’s poor table manners, because they’ve been living together for a year now, and there’s not a lot that Dylan can do that will gross Zach out. Plus, they’re at a ball game. Bad table manners are practically expected. “It’s great, Dyl.”

The Tigers are coming off a pretty good season, and the game against the Rays suggests that they’re about to have another great season. Zach is sitting with a mostly-empty cup of beer balanced carefully between his knees, hot dog in hand, and he is having a grand time.

Doesn’t hurt that Dylan is sitting next to him decked out in a Tigers jersey and hat and grinning at Zach every time a Tiger gets on base. Or completes a run. Or strikes out a Rays player. Or tags someone out.

Dylan smiles at Zach a lot, is the point. Not that Zach is complaining about it. He’s really not.

As Kevin Kiermaier comes up to bat and takes a few practice swings, Dylan leans close to Zach and says, “Imagine throwing out the opening pitch for the Tigers. That’d be crazy.”

“You could do it. Like, you know, they invite Wings players all the time over the summer before the preseason starts. Maybe in a few years that’ll be you out there on the mound.”

Dylan’s eyes light up at the thought. “You think so?”

“Yeah, for sure. And you could swap jerseys with McCann, or get his bat even.”

“Jesus. That would be so sick.”

Kiermaier swings and misses, and Zach settles back into his seat, content to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dylan still staring at him, biting his lip a little.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dylan says quickly. “It’s just, I’m really glad you decided to share this with me.”

“Course I was gonna share it with you. Who else would I share it with?”

“I don’t know, you and Comphs have been awfully close lately. And you know Hymie would’ve loved to be here too.”

This seems to be a pretty weird conversation to be having as Kiermaier misses the second ball and the umpire calls a strike. Zach waits until he’s struck out before answering. “They’re our friends and I like them plenty, but you’re _you_ , you know? Obvious choice here.”

The Tigers have left the field and are at-bat by the time Dylan speaks again. But all he says is, “Thanks, Zach.”

“No problem,” Zach says on automatic. He’s not really sure what Dylan is thanking him for (his friendship?) but he feels like sitting around thinking about it is just going to be maddening, so he stands up and gestures with his empty cup. “Gonna go get a refill. Let me know if anything interesting happens.”

Dylan nods, not taking his eyes from the field.

The line is pretty long, but thankfully the person behind the counter barely glances at Zach’s fake before refilling his cup and handing it back to him. He grabs some popcorn too, to share with Dylan, and heads back to his section.

The stadium is in an uproar when he slides into his seat, and Dylan has to shout to be heard over the crowd, eyes wide and bright and color in his cheeks as he gestures excitedly. “Dude, you just missed Kinsler’s sweet homer! Shit, they thought they had him with two strikes but then he hit it out of the park and—two runs, man!”

“Who else was on base?”

“Jones, I think, on second.”

“ _Nice_.”

The crowd is starting to settle, and Dylan is reaching into Zach’s lap for the popcorn when someone pokes Zach in the shoulder, hard. He ignores it for a second, but the poke comes again, more insistent this time, and he looks back. The guy behind him makes eye contact and points at the jumbotron.

And then Zach looks up, and that’s him and Dylan on the jumbotron, blown up to like two thousand horrible pixels so the entire stadium can see their faces. They’re outlined by a big stylized heart, with the words KISS CAM in curly font underneath.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Dylan is looking at his lap, but the tips of his ears are turning red, which means that he’s definitely realized what’s up.

Zach swallows. He doesn’t want to be that idiot who’s a bad sport about the kiss cam, but that’s him and Dylan, and they can’t— _They can’t_.

But he also can’t  _not_ do it.

He takes a deep breath, and then Dylan is sliding an arm around his shoulders, and Zach just fucking takes the plunge and leans in. He bumps his head against the brim of Dylan’s Tigers snapback, has to stop and readjust the angle a bit before he can press their lips together. He can feel the tension in Dylan’s arm as he holds Zach close, fingers tight in the fabric of Zach’s—Dylan’s, really—jersey.

It’s just for the cameras though, and Zach can feel thousands of curious eyes on him as he kisses Dylan, so he keeps it short and quick, and then he pulls away.

Dylan’s eyes are closed, and he seems surprised when it’s over, leaning back into Zach’s space like he wants another go.

But the cameras are gone now, moved onto the next couple, and Zach did it, okay? So there. He kissed Dylan. Even managed it without embarrassing himself. He sits back in his seat, and then Dylan opens his eyes and pulls back, letting out a shaky breath.

It’s quiet between the two of them as they watch the next player jog out from the dugout.

“We’re up by two runs,” Zach says, just to say something. His voice comes out a little hoarse, and he clears it, feeling self-conscious. “You think we can win this one?”

“Probably. But the Rays won’t go down without a fight.”

It’s quiet again, stretching into awkward silence.

Zach is trying so fucking hard to be cool, please just fucking let them be cool, but Dylan—

“So we’re just never gonna talk about any of it, huh?” Dylan says quietly.

Zach tips his head back, puts his beer on his knee and doesn’t look at him. They’ve been doing so well, not talking about it all year. And by it, Zach means everything, all the unexplained looks and unspoken words, but mostly he means what happened in Lake Placid.

It’s the bottom of the seventh. They still have two more innings to go, maybe more if the Rays get it back and the game goes to extra innings. Zach isn't going anywhere.

“Talk about what?” he tries, and Dylan's expression doesn't change, so he sighs and gives in. “Like, right now?”

Dylan is blushing so fucking hard, face red under his snapback, but he’s got a determined look in his eye. “Well are we gonna go back to ignoring it?”

Right, because that’s what happened last time when they waited to talk.

“Can we just watch the end of the game?” Zach sighs. “Just enjoy the last innings.” Before things go to shit later.

And Dylan must read him, because he softens and says, “Yeah, okay Zach.”

 

They’ve been seated in the car for thirty minutes now. The sun is starting to set, and most of the parking lot is empty, everyone having cleared out as soon as the game ended with a Tigers victory. Zach has class tomorrow, still has homework he hasn’t finished yet, and Dylan needs to study for his early finals before he’s cleared to go to Worlds.

Zach never really thought they could be awkward around each other, but there’s really no other way to describe the feeling in the car right now.

“Today was fun,” he starts, ignoring how weak it sounds even to his ears.

“Undefeated,” Dylan agrees.

He is staring out the passenger seat window, and the reddish-orange light of the sun is spread out over the side of his face, turning him golden. Zach wants to reach over and touch his cheek or his hair or the graceful shell of his ear where the light catches. He doesn't.

Zach is breathing, slow and shallow, and he can feel where his throat gets tight at the sight of Dylan.

“I hope it wasn’t weird when we—I mean, you’re my best friend, Larks, and today with the kiss cam—” And this is _hard_. Talking is hard business. Zach stumbles over his words and finally settles on, “It was okay.”

“What was, me kissing you?” Dylan’s voice sounds weird. Kind of offended, maybe.

“I don’t mean it was _bad_ , I just mean that uh, it wasn’t bad? It wasn’t weird for you, was it?”

“No. It was—It reminded me of, you know.”

God, they are so fucking bad at this.

Dylan is looking at Zach now, fidgeting with the seatbelt across his chest. He sighs, a big sigh, the kind of sigh that means there’s a lot coming and Zach better prepare for it. “Last summer—”

“That was, we were drunk—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Dylan says, and Zach’s heart does this funny squeeze in his chest. “I know we were drinking on Tuch’s boat all day, but I sobered up before we left the lake. I knew what I was doing; I _wanted_ it. So. I wasn’t drunk. And I don’t know about you, but...”

“I wasn’t,” Zach says. It comes out so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either. But I just, I couldn’t be sure the next morning, you know? With the whole almost missing our plane thing, and you brushed it off and never brought it up so I didn’t know if you blacked out or regretted it.”

And that is just the stupidest fucking thing Zach’s ever heard.

“I don’t—what?” he laughs, stunned and disbelieving. “I don’t fucking regret it, Dylan. I don’t regret a lot of things, but that’s definitely not—How could I…? I remember everything about it still, okay, can’t believe we didn’t wake Auston up when we slammed the door, and you smelled like the lake and Hanny’s weed and fireworks and, and _pine trees_ , and I had a hickey on my jaw for _weeks_ , and—It was fucking amazing, okay? It was the best fucking thing that happened to me last summer.”

Dylan is staring at him, mouth open a little, like he doesn’t know what to say, and then he mutters, “Are you fucking kidding me—” and pops off his seatbelt and climbs clumsily over the gear shift into Zach’s lap, and there’s definitely not enough room for him so Zach has to move the seat back as far as it’ll go, and Dylan is a heavy weight on his legs, hands on Zach’s shoulders and—oh. They’re kissing again.

Zach tries to put his arms around Dylan but the steering wheel gets in the way, so he settles for putting his hands on his waist instead.

This is nothing like their earlier kiss. This is like those summer-hot kisses that night in Lake Placid, free-falling with nothing to catch them, and Zach is dizzy with it, with the feel of Dylan’s mouth on his and the idea that while Zach might want Dylan so much it hurts, Dylan might, just might, want him back.

 

“We should really head back,” Zach whispers unsteadily against Dylan’s lips.

It’s dark inside the car, sun fully set and streetlights on, making shadows out of Dylan’s face. Zach’s legs are numb under Dylan’s ass, mouth numb with maybe a hundred kisses, but they can’t seem to let go of each other.

“Yeah, we should go,” Dylan mumbles for what must be the fourth time. “Gotta study tonight.”

He makes no move to get off Zach’s lap.

A few long minutes later, Zach pulls away from Dylan’s mouth and rests his head against his shoulder and just lets himself breathe this in. It’s taking a bit of time to process.

“I can’t believe we didn’t talk about this earlier,” he says.

Above him, Dylan’s body shakes with silent laughter, and he combs a hand through Zach’s hair. “Dude, that was all you. You were being a fucking idiot about it this whole time.”

“You didn’t bring it up either.”

“If I didn’t bring it up today, we’d still be not talking about it, and you’d have to sleep alone in your bed tonight.”

The thought of Dylan in his bed is really fucking good, makes Zach feel suddenly too-hot, so he lets him have this one. He can’t reach Dylan’s mouth from here, so he kisses his neck.

Dylan touches Zach’s face, fingers brushing under his eye where he’s still healing from a puck to the face during the final. He cups Zach’s jaw and leans in, and the kiss is feather-light and so gentle that Zach’s heart aches with it.

“I’m glad I can do this now,” he says quietly.

Dylan’s fingers tighten a little, and he kisses Zach _again_ , and they need to stop or they’ll be here all night.

“So you wanna pick up back in Ann Arbor?”

“Yeah. Fuck, Z. Fuck, okay, I’m going this time. Start the engine.”

Dylan finally climbs back into the passenger seat, and Zach starts the engine and waits for—yep. He winces a little and blows out a breath, leaning back in his seat and grinning at Dylan. He can’t help it, okay? He feels light as air.

“Aren’t we going?” Dylan asks.

Zach shakes his head. “Gotta wait a while, unless you wanna drive. My legs are asleep.”

 

 

The room is packed when Zach walks in, butterflies in his stomach that he’s trying to ignore. There are cameras everywhere, and his tie feels a bit too tight around his throat, though that’s probably just the nerves.

Before he can find his seat, Dylan fights his way out of the crowd, flushed and excited in his suit. He comes to a stop in front of Zach and looks him up and down, being very obvious about it. “Oh, there you are. You look good.”

“Thanks. You look great too.”

“Nervous?”

“Nah. You know me, I’m cool, I’m—Fuck, dude, yeah I’m nervous.” He laughs, which makes him feel a little better.

“First round, swear it. That’ll be you up there today.”

Zach looks up at the stage, tries to picture himself up there in a Devils or Flyers or Blue Jackets or Sharks jersey. It probably won’t be—He looks at number 19 on the list, and then shakes his head. He’s not going to think about it. It’s honor enough to be drafted by any team.

Dylan pretends to fix Zach’s tie, which is tied perfectly already, thanks. He takes a deep breath.

“I just want you to know that whatever happens today, whoever’s jersey you’re putting on—That’s not gonna change anything between us. I mean, you’re not gonna be living in Ann Arbor anymore and we’ll probably see each other a little less, but it’s not—We’re still gonna be good. Right?”

And Zach can’t kiss him, not here with the entire world watching, so he hugs Dylan tightly and says, quietly in his ear, “Yeah, course we are.”

Dylan hugs him back but doesn’t linger, lets it look like a supportive bro hug rather that what it really is. His eyes are bright. “I’m really fucking proud of you, Zach. And,” he lowers his voice, stays close and says, “I love you.”

This isn’t the first time Dylan has said it, and it’s not the first time that Zach has said it back, but. It still leaves him breathless and thrilled and so fucking happy. “Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> “You think after I get drafted my follower count’s gonna go up?” –Zach


End file.
